The willfully bizarre have as much room in the arts to flourish as anyone else. Even with that, though, there aren’t too many folks that make it on a grand scale: Lady Ga-Ga and Marilyn Manson being two such oddities. But both of those performers fancy themselves something of a cultural marker (well, maybe not Manson anymore, but during the ‘90s it’s pretty certain that he did). Weird Al Yankovic, even as his aim was to lampoon the normals, was able to remain a unique character in pop music while dressing like a neon tramp and sporting one of the few successful white gheri curls.

It’s in Yankovic’s impersonations that most folks will be able to understand the character of Fred Lane, who is the stage persona for Tuscaloosa, Alabama based visual artist T.R. Reed. And while it’s important to note that the artist come singer is able to work in various creative fields, the visual works that Reed crafts aren’t really representative of his music. The bright, crayon colors used in Reed’s sculptures, while as wild as Lane’s music, are something of suburban mom’s taste and desire. The music is not.

First working alongside a big band run by an acquaintance during the late ‘70s, the Lane character eventually worked out enough songs to release two discs during the early part of the following decade. And while that big band would go on to support Lane on his own recordings, the music that the ensemble crafted is not only detached from the work of Ellington and Basie, but pretty much any jazz group one can conjure.

Combined onto a single disc, the entirety of Car Radio Jerome and From the One That Cut You erratically shifts between something approximating Sun Ra’s most free large ensemble, Captain Beefheart on a bender and a rock come country band from the latter portion of the ‘60s. There’s no true antecedent, but again, Weird Al possesses the same aim: to mock the normals.

It’s difficult to pick out a single track the represents the general bent of Lane and company. One of the most rewarding tracks, though, doesn’t even sport any vocals. “Danger is My Beer” arrives sounding like a dusty 45 issued from a diabolic ‘60s rock group attempting to approximate enough surf rock into its nascent psychedelic ramblings as to make it all something melodic. The song’s execution isn’t impeccable, but that’s not really an issue considering the fact that each of these tracks was crafted with a smirk and a wink.

Elsewhere in Lane’s discography there’re nods to the Residents, who would have been working at roughly the same time as this cohort. Most of this stuff, though, is cheese ball lounge. Some of the lyrics might offend the straights – “White Woman” maybe most egregiously. And while that might have been Lane’s stated goal, it’s more likely that he just wanted to have a laugh.

There’s been a bit of renewed interest in Lane’s music subsequent to those two albums being combined, but certainly nothing that constitutes a revival – yet.